Then Simon was there. She could hear his furious shouts even from beneath the pile. The weight left her back, and he pulled her up.
“Are you all right?” His face looked as pale as death.
She tried to nod, but he was lifting her into his arms, carrying her down the steps.
“Did you see where he went?” Mr. Fletcher panted beside them.
“Simon, he meant to kill her!” Rosalind sounded shocked.
Lucy was shivering, her teeth chattering together uncontrollably. Someone had tried to kill her. She’d just been standing on the theater steps and someone had tried to kill her. She clutched at Simon’s shoulders, trying to still the violent shaking of her hands.
“I know,” Simon said grimly. His hands flexed against her back and legs. “Christian, will you escort Rosalind home? I must take Lucy to a doctor.”
“Of course.” The young man nodded, his freckles standing out starkly in his face. “Whatever I can do.”
“Good.” Simon stared intently at the younger man. “And, Christian?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” Simon spoke low. “You saved her life.”
Lucy watched over Simon’s shoulder as Mr. Fletcher’s eyes widened, and a shy smile lit his face before he turned away with Rosalind. She wondered if Simon knew how much the younger man admired him.
“I don’t need a doctor,” she tried to protest. Her voice wheezed, which certainly didn’t help her case.
Simon ignored her. He strode down the steps, shouldering through the mass of people with impatient arrogance. The crowd thinned when they reached the street.
“Simon.”
He quickened his pace.
“Simon, you can put me down now. I can walk.”
“Hush.”
“But you needn’t carry me.”
He glanced at her, and she saw to her horror that his eyes were shining. “Yes, I do need.”
She subsided then. He kept up the pace across several streets until they reached the carriage. Simon bundled her inside and rapped on the roof. The carriage jolted forward.
He held her across his lap and undid her hat. “Should’ve had Christian direct the doctor to the town house.” He swept off her cloak. “I’ll have to summon him when we get back.” He turned her just enough to reach her back and began unbuttoning her bodice.
Surely he didn’t mean to undress her in a moving carriage? But his face was so serious, so grave, that she asked the question gently. “What are you doing?”
“Finding where you’re hurt.”
“I told you,” she said softly. “I’m all right.”
He didn’t answer but simply continued working on the buttons. He drew the dress off her shoulders, opened her stays, then stilled, looking at her side. Lucy followed his eyes. A thin line of blood stained her chemise just beside her breast. There was a corresponding tear in the fabric of her dress. Gently, Simon loosened the chemise’s tie and pulled it away. A cut lay underneath. Now that she saw it, Lucy suddenly felt the burn. Somehow in all the confusion, she hadn’t noticed the pain before. She’d been stabbed, but not deeply.
“He nearly had you.” Simon traced underneath the cut. “A few inches farther in and he’d have hit your heart.” His voice was calm, but Lucy didn’t like the way his nostrils had flared, making white dents beside his nose.
“Simon.”
“If his aim hadn’t been off . . .”
“Simon—”
“If Christian hadn’t been there . . .”
“It’s not your fault.”
His eyes finally met hers, and she saw that the tears had overwhelmed him. Two trailed unchecked down his cheek. He didn’t seem to be aware of them. “Yes, it is. It’s my fault. I nearly got you killed tonight.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
She’d supposed her assailant to be some kind of pickpocket or other thief. Perhaps a madman. But Simon was implying that the attacker had been after her specifically. That he’d wanted to kill her. Simon smoothed his thumb over her lips and tenderly kissed her. Even as she accepted his tongue into her mouth and tasted the salt of his tears, she realized that he hadn’t answered her question. And that scared her more than anything else had that night.
HE KNEW HE SHOULDN’T.
Even as he swept Lucy into his arms and carried her into the house, Simon knew he shouldn’t. He shouldered aside Newton, who exclaimed in concern, and bore her up the stairs like a Roman plundering a Sabine maiden. He’d pulled Lucy’s chemise and gown up without fully hooking the back and had thrown her wrap about her to carry her in. She’d convinced him in the carriage that she really didn’t need a physician. The cut over her ribs was the only wound, besides bruising, he could find. Nevertheless, someone had tried to kill her. She was shaken and hurt. Only a cad would demand the rights of a husband now.Ergo, he was a cad.
Simon kicked open the door to his bedroom, bore her across the silver and black carpet, and deposited her on the bed. She lay on his cobalt-blue cover like an offering. Her hair had loosened and was spread over the silk.
“Simon—”
“Hush.”
She gazed up at him with calm topaz eyes as he threw off his coat. “We need to discuss what happened.”
He toed off his shoes and nearly ripped the buttons from his waistcoat. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I need you too much right now.”
“Does what I feel not matter?”
“At the moment?” He tore off his shirt. “Frankly, no.”
God, couldn’t he stop talking? He seemed to have completely lost the art of prevarication. All his finesse, all his elegant words were gone, and what remained was primitive and essential.
He advanced to the bed, but with a great act of self-control didn’t touch her. “If you want me to leave, I will.”
Her eyes searched his for a long minute during which he died several times over, and his cock reached monstrous proportions. Then, without speaking, she pulled open the ribbon on her chemise. That was all he needed. He fell on her like a starving man at the sight of a Yorkshire pudding. But despite his urgency, he was careful. Though his hands shook, he pulled her dress from her shoulders slowly. Tenderly.
“Lift,” he instructed her, and somehow his voice was hushed.
She raised her hips, and he threw the garment on the floor.
“Do you know how much that cost?” He didn’t even care that she sounded amused.
“No, but I can guess.” He worked at her slippers and stockings. “I’ll buy you a hundred more, a thousand, in every color of rose. Have I told you how much I admire you in rose?”
She shook her head.
“I do. Of course, I admire you even more in nothing. Perhaps I’ll let you wear nothing at all. That would solve the expensive dress problem.”
“And if I object to such a chilly law?” Her brows arched dangerously.
“I’m your husband.” He took the chemise off her at last, revealing her white breasts. For a moment his eyes caught on the shallow cut on her side, and he felt fear again chill his soul. Then his nostrils flared at the sight of her nude. He wasn’t altogether successful in keeping the possession out of his voice. “You’ve promised to obey me in all things. For instance, if I bid you kiss me, you must.”
He bent and brushed his lips across her mouth. She responded dutifully, her lips moving under his erotically. He was conscious all the time of her breasts, white and bare and undefended, beneath him. His lust rose, shaking his muscles, but he reined it in. The last thing he needed was for her to see how out of control he really was. How very base he really was.
“I bid you open.” His voice was nearly hoarse.
She parted her lips and he at least had that—the warm, moist hollow of her mouth to feast on. His arms suddenly trembled. He drew back and closed his eyes.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He opened his eyes and tried to smile to hide the demons inside. “I need you very badly.”
Tha
nkfully, she didn’t smile. Instead she looked at him with solemn golden eyes. “Then take me.”
He inhaled at her simple, explicit offer. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve”—he looked away, unable to meet her gaze—“been hurt too much already tonight.”
Silence.
Then she spoke slowly and clearly. “You won’t hurt me.”
Ah, such trust. It was frightening. If only he could be as confident. He rolled to his back. “Come here.”
Those intelligent eyebrows went up again. “Aren’t you wearing too much?”
His breeches. “I’ll take them off later.” Or merely unbutton them.
“May I?”
He gritted his teeth. “Fine.”
She rose to her elbow beside him, and her breasts swung with the movement. His cock jumped. Delicately she began unbuttoning him. He felt each small pull of her fingers. He closed his eyes and tried to think of snow. Frost. Sleet. Ice.
A soft sigh.
His eyes popped open. She was leaning over him, her white breasts nearly incandescent in the candlelight. Her gaze was fixed on his ruddy-tipped penis, standing foolishly erect from his breeches. It was the most erotic vision he’d ever seen.
“I wondered if you’d ever let me see him.” She didn’t move her eyes from his groin.
“I beg your pardon?” He nearly squeaked on the last syllable as she touched her forefinger to his crown.
“I’ve met him, yes, but never seen him. He’s been very shy, this fellow.” She ran her finger around the rim.
He nearly came off the bed. She should be shocked, she’d been a naive, country miss. Instead . . .
“And look, here are his companions.” She took his balls into her small palm.
God’s blood. She was going to kill him.
“Lift.”
“What?” He blinked at her dazedly.
“Lift your hips so I may undress you,” his budding houri said.
What could he do but obey? She slid off his breeches and made him as naked as she.
“Now it’s your turn.” Thankfully his voice had returned. He couldn’t stand much more of this.
“What would you have me do?” she asked.
“I bid you come here.” He held out his arms and tried not to groan when the soft inside of her thigh brushed against his erection.
She climbed over him and carefully sat. His cock bobbed in front of her, touching her belly with each pulse. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her, but he had to go slowly.
“I bid you offer your breasts to me,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened. Good. At least he wasn’t the only one affected. She cupped herself, hesitated, then bent lower. Aphrodite herself couldn’t have been more alluring. He watched her face as he sucked a pink nipple into his mouth. She closed her eyes, her mouth helplessly parted. Her mons was pressed against his cock, which was throbbing between them. She trembled and that darkness within him roared with triumph.
He let go of the nipple. “Mount me.”
She frowned.
“Please.” The word was more an order than a plea, but he was past caring. He needed her pussy around him.
She raised herself. He steadied her with one hand, held his cock with the other, and she slowly sank onto him.
“Hold yourself open for me,” he murmured. Cad. It made the way easier, but he also had a wonderful view of her coral wetness.
She gasped and fumbled between their bodies with her fingers. Poor angel. Led into corruption by a selfish devil who cared only for his prick. Ahh. He was half in now, the way tight and warm and soft. He took her hands away, put them on his chest, and used his own fingers to part her folds. To hold her as he worked his way into her tight passage. Paradise. He almost smiled. This was as close as he would ever be to heaven. He knew the thought was blasphemy itself, and he didn’t care. He was making love to his angel. Tomorrow the world might end, but right now he was balls-deep in wet woman. His wet woman.
He thrust and she cried out.
He felt a grin, not a nice one, split his face. He looked down and watched his reddened skin slide into her flesh. Lifted her up and pulled almost out. Saw the glistening moisture of her cunny coating his cock. And slammed back into her. Thrusting into her. Filling her. Claiming her. My woman. Always. Never to leave. Stay with me.
Always.
She shook her head wildly. He pressed his fingers against her mound to feel it and to find that special pearl. She moaned, but he didn’t relent. He filled her with cock and diddled her clitoris with his thumb, and he knew she couldn’t hold out. The walls of her sheath clenched and she came, raining her sweet pleasure on his prick. He buried himself in her until his balls met her bottom. His body convulsed and he felt the pulse of his seed filling her.
Mine.
Chapter Fourteen
Oh, God!
Lucy woke with a start, her breath coming in gasps in the dark of the bedroom. The sheets clung to the cold sweat on her skin like a shroud. She froze and tried to calm her breathing, lying as still as a rabbit on sighting the snake. The dream had been vivid. Bloody. But it was already fading with her consciousness. All she recalled was the fear—and the feeling of hopelessness. She’d been screaming in the dream when she’d woken, and she’d been surprised that the sound was as phantom as the images.Finally she moved, her muscles aching from being held in tension too long. She reached out to find Simon, to reassure herself that there was life even in the depths of night and nightmare.
He wasn’t there.
Maybe he’d gotten up to use the necessary? “Simon?”
No answer. She listened to the silence with the irrational fear that only came after midnight: that all life had died. That she was alone in a dead house.
Lucy shook herself and rose, wincing a bit as the cut on her side pulled. Her bare toes touched the cold carpet, and she patted her hand in the air, searching for a candle on the bedside table before realizing she’d gone to sleep in Simon’s room. The table was on the other side of the bed. She held the bed curtains for a guide and felt with her feet as she rounded the bed. All she remembered of the room from last night was an impression of darkness and the severe colors, an almost black-blue and silver, and that his bed was even bigger than her own. That had amused her.
She held out a hand blindly, felt a book and then the candle. There were still embers glowing in the fireplace, and she crossed to light the candle. The feeble flame hardly revealed the whole of Simon’s room, but she already knew he wasn’t here. She put on her gown from the theater and pulled a wrap over it to hide the fact that she couldn’t do up the back on her own. Then she shoved her bare feet into slippers.
She shouldn’t be surprised that he’d disappeared. He’d made a habit of it in the last week, leaving in the evening, only to reappear in the early hours of morning. His nightly wandering seemed to have become more common in the last few days. Sometimes he came to her chamber looking so very weary and smelling of smoke and drink. But he’d never left her bed before, not after making love to her, not after holding her until they both gave in to sleep. And the way he’d made love to her only hours before—so intensely, so desperately—as if he’d never have the opportunity again. She’d actually been afraid at certain points. Not that he’d hurt her, but that she’d lose a part of herself in him.
Lucy shivered.
Their rooms were on the third floor. She checked her bedroom and sitting room, then descended the stairs. The library was empty. She held her candle high and saw only long, ghostly shadows thrown over the rows of book bindings. A window rattled in the wind from without. She reentered the hallway and debated. The morning room? Highly unlikely, he’d—
“May I help you, my lady?”
Newton’s dirgelike tones behind her made Lucy shriek. Her candle went tumbling to the floor, hot wax burning her instep.
“I’m most sorry, my lady.” Newton bent and retrieved her candle and lit it with his own.
“Thank you.�
�� Lucy accepted the light and held it higher so she could see the butler.
Newton had obviously just come from bed. A nightcap covered his bald pate, and an old coat was thrown over his nightshirt, pulled taut across his small, round belly. She looked down. He wore rather fancy, curl-toed Turkish slippers on his feet. Lucy rubbed one bare foot over the other and wished she’d thought of stockings.
“May I assist you, my lady?” Newton asked again.
“Where is Lord Iddesleigh?”
The butler averted his eyes. “I couldn’t say, my lady.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He blinked. “Both.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows, surprised he’d answered with the truth. She studied the butler. If Simon’s absence was because of a woman, she was sure Newton would’ve made excuses for his master. But he hadn’t. She felt her shoulders relax from a tension she hadn’t even known was there.
Newton cleared his throat. “I’m sure Lord Iddesleigh will return before morning, my lady.”
“Yes, he always does, doesn’t he?” Lucy muttered.
“Would you like me to warm you some milk?”
“No, thank you.” Lucy walked to the stairs. “I’ll go back to bed.”
“Good night, my lady.”
Lucy put her foot on the first tread and held her breath. From behind her, Newton’s footsteps receded and a door closed. She waited a moment more, then turned. Quietly she tiptoed back to Simon’s study.
This room was smaller than the library but more richly appointed. It was dominated by his massive baroque desk, a recklessly beautiful piece of furniture, picked out in gilt and curlicues. She would’ve laughed at any other man owning such a piece, but it suited Simon perfectly. There was an arrangement of wingback chairs before the fireplace, and two bookcases flanked the desk, easily accessible to someone sitting at it. Many of the books were on the subject of roses. Simon had shown her this room only the other day, and she’d been fascinated by the detailed hand-colored illustrations in the big tomes. Each rose an ideal of the flower, each part identified and labeled.
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